#simon ghost cod

[simonz-angel]

pt 2 flickin up with mr simon rileyyyy while riding him ♡

he peels his eyes from your sweet, sweet body, eyes dropping to the open flame, and he inhales slowly. it’s a deep breath, just enough to light up the end of the joint before he’s tossing the lighter away, somewhere the two of you’ll find later.

he lets his hand return, soft on your hip, not guiding, not controlling just resting, tightening ever so slightly when you sink back down onto the pretty length of him. n he’s calm, collected all the while you’re puffing out, whining and clawing at his chest.

“don’t finish it all, si,” you huff, pouting down at him. and his eyes go glassy almost on command, just a look at your delicate face has him suddenly intoxicated, brain numbing till he’s swearing he’s dumb downed.

he puffs a laugh, watching the smoke fog your face from view, wrist rolling as he extends it out towards you. “oh, did you want some, bunny?”

you’re all rolling eyes and snarking tuts as you reach out shakily, fingertips struggling to take the butt of the joint without burning your sweet love in the process. though you take the sweet back when he’s flicking your fingers away.

“i- simon, what the fu-“ your snappy grouch is cut short with a steeling hand around your neck as he pulls you close. your own hands stumble across his chest, fingertips slipping up the warm compass, nails coiling under the scratchy tufts of sandy blonde.

yet, when you feel the warm paper between your lips, your eyes are fluttering and you’re moaning your approval. you sit your hips back slowly, listening to the deep rumble of his throat as he watches. he’s got the joint just between his fore and middle finger, watching you inhale yourself a hit slowly. “that enough to shut you up, baby?”

and as you’re nodding, pulling yourself back slightly just to watch him tuck it into the corner of his lips, he’s mumbling something about rolling you up a few after he fills you up nice and pretty.

[freakstur]

Hello hello hello! This is my brain vomit of the day! Feminine!GN!Reader!

(nsfw)

Simon absolutely loves when you look wrecked.

And sure, it could be the basic things like when he fucks you senseless over the countertop, watching how your body still twitches, how your voice and moans sound so very wrecked, how your hair is all tousled out and splattered like paint on the counter. He loves it.

But he also loves the more rare versions of you. The ones he can pop a boner within seconds of seeing.

Like when your lipstick is slightly smudged under your lip, and he ravishes you — kissing you so roughly so that the lipstick spreads to his lips too, kissing you so amazingly you almost forget you have to breathe. The colourful stars prickling your eyesight almost lineup exactly with the fluttering eyes of a star-struck man. ‘My pretty,’ he’d mutter, before lowering his head and ravishing you all over again.

Or the version of you when your mascara begins to smudge ever so slightly under your eyes, and how he’ll sit you down, kneel between your legs, kiss your hand as if you were royalty — before licking his thumb and dragging it gently under your eyes to soften the edges. He’ll drag his hands down your face gently, pulling at your red cheeks, dragging you lips apart and staring at you — not at your eyes, you’re sure he’s staring at your very soul — and then best believe he’s dragging you home right then and there no matter where you are.

But one of his very favourite sights to see of you is in tears.

Call him sadistic, call him an asshole — he can’t help but bite his tongue when he sees those fat, sweet tears rolling down your cheeks. Of course, if you’re sad, he’ll help you — (and maybe have to leave for a moment to the bathroom to handle the monster hiding away in his pants) — holding your face softly, kissing your pretty, puffy eyes…

But it’s a whole different story if you’re crying while fucking.

The way your mascara smudges, how your voice sounds so, so broken, the way your lipstick is smeared around your mouth from how he ravished you — and then there’s those sweet, sweet eyes of yours, and the glimmering tears leaking out of them. It makes him fuck you harder and faster than you can comprehend.

He kisses your red nose, licking away the stray tears and sweetly telling you, though it almost sounds like mocking, ‘come on, pretty thing, you can take it,’ as he pounds into you.

He’s not sadistic. He just loves you. And he knows you love when he wrecks you too.

[ha1lstorm]

okay but we need more submissive simon 🙏

Ask and you shall receive🙂‍↕️

I’m not great at writing submissive men, so I apologize if it doesn’t live up to expectations, I did try though🫶

Mdni!!

Warnings: submissive Simon Riley, riding, teasing, orgasm denial(?), whiny simon, Simon’s favorite word is please

Riding Simon after a long day at work was your favorite pastime!

Simon on the couch, you in his lap, facing him, riding his cock as fast or as slowly as you desired.

Simon begging and pleading for more, his whimpers slipping out even though he tries to hide them.

He was never allowed to touch, unless you explicitly told him he could. Though, you’d usually give in anyways…

And you did, so his hands rested on your waist, not gripping or helping your movements, just resting.

“Please baby,”

“Please what Si?” You ran your hands up and down his arms, still riding him.

“I-I don’t know,” he choked out.

“Well then I can’t help you pretty boy,” you landed a kiss on his cheek and continued your movements.

He whimpered something in return, not legible for you to hear though.

“What was that Simon?”

“Nothing.” He huffed.

“Oh well, in that case,” you started to get up from his lap…

“Wait no, I’m sorry, please?”

You almost sat back down, lining yourself up with him, but hovering, “then what did you say baby?”

“I just said not fair.” He glanced away, not looking in your eyes.

“Oh? Not fair?” You still hovered over him.

He tried to buck his hips up slightly so you wouldn’t notice, “I didn’t mean it I promise love,”

You looked down at his cock, swollen and red, waiting for a release.

You sighed, he always had a way of making you soft for him…not without a little fun though…

You slammed down on his dick, making Simon yell, “Fuck!”

“Language pretty boy,” you told him as you rode him at a fast pace, not giving him a moment to breathe.

He was gonna cum, you could tell, soo you slowed down…

“No, no please faster, I was so close baby,”

You ignored him, still riding slowly.

More whimpers and whines fell from his mouth before you quickened your pace again…

He warned you this time, “I’m gonna cum love, please let me cum”

You kissed his cheek, “okay baby,”

He looked at you with almost puppy dog eyes, “Cum with me? Please I wanna cum with you lovie,”

You shook your head yes as you both reached the edge and fell over together, slowly riding out the orgasm.

His hands moved from your waist to holding you tight against him in a hug.

He kissed the top of your head, “I love you,”

“I love you too,” you said into his chest.

Simon would only let you be bossy for so long though…

A/n: I’ve liked writing shorter little dabbles lately and I hope you have enjoyed them along with me! I hope this one was good, like I said I’m not great at writing submissive men…

Don’t forget to leave your requests, I enjoy doing them for people!!

Check out my master list for more Simon Riley

Tags: @raveszn @j3llyc4kes @bistrocatxx

[cheeseatlantic]

SLIP

Simon Riley didn’t do love.

Didn’t do second rounds.

Didn’t do names, didn’t do phone numbers, didn’t do breakfast.

He did bodies. Skin. Release.

Flesh warmed under his hands for a few hours, muffled gasps into motel pillows, fingers that clawed and gripped but never lingered once the sun rose. Then he’d leave. He always left.

It was easier that way. Safer. Cleaner.

Soap had stopped teasing him about it months ago. Once upon a time, Johnny made jokes—bad ones—about Ghost being some sort of secret romantic. About how maybe, one day, he’d actually keep someone around.

Simon had laughed at him. A cold, unimpressed exhale.

“Don’t be daft, Johnny. Ain’t that type.”

No one believed him.

Because nobody got close enough to know the truth.

⸻

It started stupid.

He’d been in the city on an intel drop. Civilian area, off-duty. A hoodie pulled up, jeans, his mask still in place under the fabric—habit. Always.

They bumped into him. Quite literally. Holding a takeaway cup with both hands, muttering something under their breath about traffic and late trains and broken headphones.

Simon had looked at them like he always looked at strangers. Blank. Cold. Silent.

You looked up, blinked. Paused.

Then smiled. “You okay?”

He’d said nothing. Just stared.

Because they didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Didn’t even hesitate.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, moving past.

You didn’t chase him. Didn’t try to engage. Just nodded like that was enough and kept walking. That should’ve been it.

But Simon looked back.

⸻

The first time was a fuck-up.

Or maybe the best mistake he ever made.

He hadn’t meant to follow you. He really hadn’t. But he spotted you later that night at some quiet bar tucked away behind an alley. Same drink in hand. Same quiet expression. Still alone.

You met his eyes again like they’d been waiting.

“Drink with me?”

He should’ve said no.

Instead, he sat.

⸻

You never asked what he did for work.

Never pried, never prodded.

You kissed like you meant it, slow and careful, like you weren’t just trying to get off. And when you tugged at his mask—gently, questioningly—he let you.

That was new.

Simon’s one-night stands never got to see his face. Not even in the dark. But this time?

This time, he didn’t stop you.

You looked at him like he wasn’t a ghost at all.

⸻

After, when their chests were slick and their hands were tangled and the sweat was still cooling on their skin, you turned to him and said, “You don’t have to stay.”

And Simon stayed anyway.

He stayed the whole fucking night.

⸻

The next time was supposed to be the last. Just one more. A goodbye.

But then they were on his mind. Constantly. Annoyingly.

He found himself watching the street corner where they’d met.

He remembered your drink. Your smile. The sound you made when you came.

He went back.

You let him in without a word.

⸻

Weeks passed. Then months.

He didn’t call it dating. They weren’t together. He didn’t do relationships.

But they knew what to keep quiet. Never posted photos. Never pried. Never asked for more than he could give.

He trusted them. Somehow.

And Ghost didn’t trust anyone.

⸻

“Still single, then?” Soap asked, elbowing him one afternoon during weapons checks.

Simon grunted. “I hate people.”

“Figures.” Johnny smirked. “You’re too grumpy to keep anyone alive around you, much less interested.”

Ghost said nothing. Didn’t even glance up.

Johnny laughed like he hadn’t just hit dead-on.

⸻

You were his secret.

His one softness. The quiet at the end of the noise.

You let him rest. Let him have silence without pressure. Let him talk, sometimes—about his brother, his past, his fear of waking up one day and forgetting how to care.

You just listened. Or held him. Or took his hand in yours and whispered, “You’re safe here.”

⸻

It was a morning mission.

Stupid, early, and the fog hadn’t lifted yet.

Ghost was running on maybe three hours of sleep after a week-long op. No time to reset. He was already dressed when you stirred in bed and reached out to him. your fingers skimmed his wrist.

“Don’t forget your mask,” you murmured sleepily.

“I never do.”

But he kissed you anyway. A rare thing. Gentle, brief.

“You’re coming back?”

Simon didn’t pause. “Yeah.”

⸻

The briefing room was freezing. Soap was already talking shit the second he walked in.

“Lt! Jesus, you look like death’s left nut.”

“Cheers,” Simon muttered, tossing his rucksack down and rolling his shoulder. The balaclava felt tight, uncomfortable today.

“You alright?” Johnny asked.

“M’fine.”

He wasn’t. Not really. There was a burn on his neck, a mouth-shaped bruise just under the line of his collar—where his partner had sunk teeth in a little too hard during last night’s goodbye.

They’d laughed after. “You’ll cover it up, yeah?”

“Always,” Simon promised.

But he was rushed this morning. Foggy. He didn’t double-check the seam of his mask.

And as he leaned forward, arms braced on the table, the hem rode up. Just a little. Just enough.

Johnny’s words cut off mid-sentence.

Simon didn’t notice.

⸻

Soap had seen Ghost with plenty of people. The man was a machine. No repeats. No names. No rules except for one—don’t touch him unless he says so. Don’t mark him. Don’t fucking try.

And none of them had. Not once. Johnny had seen him leave motel rooms with his shirt still tucked perfect and his skin clean.

But this—

This wasn’t clean.

There were two love bites blooming just under Ghost’s jaw. Half-faded bruises, kissed purple, small and careful but deep enough to show teeth.

One was old. One was fresh.

Johnny blinked. Didn’t say anything.

Yet.

⸻

After the meeting, he followed Ghost out into the corridor.

“Lt.”

Simon glanced back. “What?”

“You got somethin’ on your neck.” Johnny tapped his own jaw. “Right here.”

Simon frowned. “No, I don’t.”

Johnny lifted a brow. “Wanna bet?”

Simon brushed his glove over his collarbone—and froze. The edge of the balaclava had curled up, just slightly. He felt the bruise, raw and sore, and his entire body stiffened like he’d been shot.

He pulled the fabric down fast.

“Fuck,” he muttered, under his breath.

Soap just crossed his arms. “Well?”

“Well what?”

Johnny’s smile was smug. Too smug. “So. Who is it?”

“No one.”

“Don’t lie to me, mate.”

“I’m not.”

Ghost’s voice was flat. Controlled. But too fast. Too sharp.

Johnny tilted his head. “They yours?”

“What?”

“The marks. You let ‘em do that?”

Simon didn’t answer.

Soap stepped closer. “Because I’ve seen you throw someone across a bed for even lookin’ at your neck. So either you lost a bet—”

“I didnt.”

“—or there’s someone you don’t mind gettin’ close.”

Simon said nothing.

Soap whistled low. “Steamin’ Jesus.”

“Don’t.”

“Oh, I’m gonna.”

“Johnny—”

“You got a partner.” Johnny looked like it was Christmas morning. “You have a partner.”

Simon sighed. “Keep your voice down.”

“You kept this from me?! I’m your best mate!”

“That’s why I kept it quiet,” Simon muttered. “Didn’t want you actin’ like this.”

Soap grinned like the devil. “Actin’ like what? Happy for you?”

“Annoyin’.”

Johnny thumped a hand on his shoulder. “C’mon, Lt. I’m proud of you.”

“Don’t be.”

“I am. You’re human after all.”

gta Simon rolled his eyes. “One word to anyone—”

“I won’t.”

“You better not.”

“Scout’s honour.”

“You were never a scout.”

“I was close enough.”

Johnny beamed. “Do they know?”

“Know what?”

“That you’re…” He gestured vaguely. “You. Lieutenant Ghost. Mad bastard. Bloody legend.”

Simon paused. “Yeah. They know.”

“And they still stuck around?”

“They’re still there.”

Johnny gave a small nod. “Then they’re fuckin’ brave.”

Simon’s voice softened. “Yeah. They are.”

⸻

The next time Simon saw his partner, he didn’t mention the balaclava.

Didn’t say a word about Johnny seeing the bruises. Just pulled you close, kissed the side of your face, and breathed you in like air.

“You okay?” you asked softly.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

He pulled off his mask. “Mhm.”

You smiled. “Did you cover the mark this time?”

simon smirked, eyes dark. “Don’t make new ones, then.”

You kissed his neck, slow and purposeful. “Where’s the fun in that?”

⸻

And for once in his life, Simon Riley didn’t run.

Didn’t leave before dawn.

Didn’t push away the hands that held him.

He stayed.

Because finally—finally—he had something to stay for.

[jaesblogstuff]

Probably your other Girlfriend

“Remember that little black ashtray you used to have?” Simon calls out from the kitchen, digging around like he’s gonna find something that isn’t his.

You don’t even look up from your laptop. “Ashtray?”

“Yeah,” he says, rattling a drawer. “ You know, black. Square. You always kept your lighters in it.”

You blink. “Simon, I don’t smoke.”

There’s a pause. The kind where you can feel him stopping mid-motion, mentally scrolling through his own memories like an idiot.

And you’re just sitting there, watching it click behind his eyes. That he’s not technically wrong. You did buy a little black dish like that once. Flea market, two bucks, no thought. Tossed your lip balm and keys in it. Forgot it even existed.

You smirk, eyes still on your screen. “Must’ve been your other girlfriend.”

Throwaway line. Joke. Light. Nothing mean. But of course Simon wants a say in it.

“Yeah,” he says. So fast. Like he was waiting to say it. “Could’ve been.”

Silence. Your head tilts slow as hell.

Just your eyes on him like you’re calculating the trajectory of the beer bottle next to him and deciding whether or not prison’s worth it today. “Ha. Ha.”

He freezes. Still holding the drawer like it’s a shield.

“You keep playing with me.” It’s not loud. It’s not even a threat.

But he knows better than anyone—that’s the danger zone. Because your tone doesn’t change. But the air does.

“You make another joke like that,” you nod toward the counter, “and that bottle’s going in your skull. And not the fun way.”

Simon just stares at you for a second, like he’s trying to decide if you’re bluffing.

You’re not. And he knows it.

Because last month, you ruined a man’s entire bloodline for lying to you during a debrief. Did it barefoot, in pajamas, eating chips. Didn’t even pause the show you were watching.

So no, you’re not the one.

He nods once. “Copy.” Smart.

He moves back to the fridge like nothing happened, but the corners of his mouth are doing that thing, barely-there smirk, like he’s impressed. Like he lives to piss you off.

Because this is foreplay for him.

He wants to see how far he can go before you finally snap and kill him in his sleep. And honestly? You let him.

Because who else is gonna carry the groceries and make you tea and know exactly where your shoulder blades like to be kissed?

He’s annoying. But he’s yours.

[tobeholyistobeempty]

part two / continuation to ‘immediately into dating, simon riley would buy you a gun.’

———————

simon doesn’t do panic. he doesn’t do “what if” in the way most people do.

simon does loadouts, contingency plans. redundancies. plans b, c, and d. war-game strategies for situations you haven’t even considered. you once joked that if aliens invaded he’d have a bunker prepped with oxygen tanks, thermal blankets, and stashes of your favourite tea.

he didn’t even laugh. just looked at you and said “third shelf. bottom left.”

that’s simon riley in a nutshell. the man you’ve grown to love more than you thought possible. so it’s no surprise when, a few months into his first deployment since moving in with you, he returns home with yet another gift. a plain black phone - matte black, weighty, no brand or ports or logos - just a long slim button along the left side.

you look at him as if he grew three heads, and earn an amused smirk for it.

“encrypted satellite uplink.” he explains, like that’s a thing you’ve heard before. “custom interface. only one number in it - mine.”

you blink at him. “you got me a burner bat-phone?”

he hums, then shrugs like it’s not the weirdest thing ever.

“gps auto-tracks if it’s turned on. hit the button on the side twice and it sends me a signal - transferable no matter where i am in the world. i’ll see location, coordinates, audio, front facing images. enough data f’me to paint the whole picture without you sayin a word.”

oh.

you exhale something shaky, mumble something like jesus simon - but nonetheless, you hear what he isn’t saying. he’s made it clear, from day one, that you being safe isn’t negotiable. and simon isn’t the man to leave anything to chance.

you understand it’s love, in the language he speaks best. preparation.

so then he runs you through it. how to use it, scenarios you might need it and how to remain calm while staring down the face of danger. gives you script suggestions and ways to talk yourself out of an ambush. he’s got an idea for every situation and a backup plan for each back up plan. you understand it’s the mind of a soldier. the way he’s been trained to be.

and when it does happen - some months and change into his second or third deployment - it doesn’t even feel real at first.

it’s late. you’d gone out to grab some takeout from a spot two blocks down. you don’t even question it anymore - don’t even think twice. you carry the phone in your pocket just like you carry the gun in your purse - knowing it tracks your location, knowing it sends a silent beacon straight to him if you double press the side button. you used to joke about him being paranoid, but simon isn’t paranoid. he’s a realist. a man who’s watched enough good people die to understand that bad things don’t wait for convenience. they wait for your hands to be full of takeout bags, your guard to be down, and your head to be elsewhere.

and that’s exactly how it goes.

it’s a shortcut you’ve taken a hundred times. the alley behind the restaurant that cuts straight to the other end of your neighbourhood. you’ve got headphones in and your hood up when you come face to face with a man standing dead centre of your path.

you clock him immediately. wide stance. twitchy energy. hand near his hip - not quite pulling a weapon, but not just scratching his ass either.

shit.

“evenin’,” he drawls with a toothless grin. “nice night, huh?”

you don’t respond. your mind is already going - whirling through all the things simon taught you. how to pretend. how to play a part so well you catch the catch off guard.

the man steps forward. “whatcha got on you?”

you exhale, steady. just like you’ve been taught - and then you smile. script selected and ready to play the part.

“careful,” you murmur. “you’re interfering with an ongoing operation.”

that gives him pause.

“operation?” he repeats, eyebrows notched.

you nod, slowly - turning your head only slightly, not taking your eyes off him, to nod toward the building behind you.

“undercover narcotics. been tracking cartel for the last two weeks. i’m wired, by the way.” you tap your hoodie. “whole conversations being recorded.”

he laughs, ugly, and pulls a knife out of his pocket.

“bullshit. give me the purse, lady.”

“okay, okay. sure.” you shrug, snuff down the panic, and work that training that was drilled into you. “sniper on the rooftop two buildings over says otherwise.”

“nice try.” he snorts and steps closer again, raising the knife a little higher. “ain’t no fuckin sniper.”

and that’s when you do it - two presses of your thumb on the side of the phone in your pocket. no sound, no light - but somewhere halfway across the world, simon riley is already moving.

the call comes three seconds later. you answer without taking your eyes off the man before you.

“sergeant.” simon grits out from the other end. “what’s your status.”

there’s noise behind him. a radio, chatter, chopper blades - yet his focus is entirely on you.

“got a civilian obstructing the path. attempted mugging with a concealed weapon. non responsive to verbal warnings. might need a threat escalation.”

a pause - then simon’s voice changes.

“copy that. sights locked, target acquired - middle aged male, five foot seven, green hoodie.” he says, like he’s in the middle of a fuckin battlefield, somehow detecting all of this from behind a five inch screen. you hear his gun cock. the man hears it too. “rounds chambered - if he reaches for you, we take the shot. confirm.”

the man’s face drops into a scowl. you smile wider.

“confirmed.” you reply.

“wh-who the fuck is that?” his hand falters. “what the fuck-“

simon doesn’t miss a beat.

“who i am doesn’t matter. what matters is your position, your movement profile, and the blood spatter trajectory once my round goes through your fuckin teeth.” he pauses, just for a moment. “you’ve got a daughter. five years old. get moving if y’wanna see her again.”

and it’s like a switch flips in the guy’s brain, because his whole posture changes. eyes darting to the rooftops. sweat prickling at his hairline. you don’t even have to reach for your gun because he’s already backing away.

how the fuck simon knew all that in a thirty second span is beyond you.

“fuckin’ - whatever, man. shit,” he mutters, turning on his heel and power-walking into the shadows.

you let out a breath once he’s gone - slow and long and completely in shock, and raise the phone to your ear.

“you still there?”

“always ‘ere, love,” simon murmurs. his voice coming through in something softer now. still tense, still locked in, but something in it cracks around the edges. “you alright?”

you nod even though he can’t see it, then realize that maybe he can.

“i am now, si.”

there’s a soft silence between you. weighted with everything he can’t do from across the globe.

then, quiet: “i shoulda been there.”

you clutch the phone tighter. pretend it’s his hand.

“simon,” you murmur, “you were.”

you walk home with the phone still pressed to your ear, and he stays on the line until your door’s locked, your shoes are off, and the food’s gone cold on the counter.

“hey,” you whisper into the speaker. “your sniper impression’s terrifying, by the way.”

a breath of a laugh - filled with all the relief that comes with it.

“nothin’ bout that was an impression, sweet’eart.”

[remirtillo]

my shayla

[phantasm-ae]

cw: smut, cowgirl, reader is on top, simon riley x afab reader, size kink, size difference, overstimulated reader, slight mean simon riley :((

HEADCANON: Sometimes Simon is just… too much

PAIRING: Simon Riley x afab reader

You'd barely gotten two inches in before your body decided to clench tight -- resisting, trembling, overwhelmed.

And still, you whimpered softly, lip wobbling with exertion and grit before reaching for more.

Simon cursed under his breath, fingers digging the meat of your hips, holding you in place so you wouldn't sink down on his cock further. One coarse hand spanning nearly your entire side, a stark reminder of just how big he was. How much there was left of him to take.

"Bloody fuckin’ hell," he muttered, low and wrecked. “So tight, baby.”

You nodded against his chest, dazed, desperate, trying to rock your hips to take more of him in -- but Simon stilled you with a growl.

“None of that, sweetheart.” His voice rasped near your ear, warm breath cutting through the sweat-slick heat. “You’re already struggling, and we’ve barely started.”

Your fingers curled into his shoulders, nails biting into scarred skin. He was being careful -- so fucking careful -- but your body didn’t want careful. It wanted full. You wanted him. All of him.

But he wasn’t having it.

You whimpered, clinging to his shoulders, trying to ease a little bit of the friction. Sinking down on him all of a sudden that you both gasped at overwhelming sensation. “But I— I want it all.”

“And I’ll give it to you,” he said, gaze dark, tone like gravel and stormclouds, teeth gritting at the plushy cushion of your pussy on his cock. The walls of your cunt tracing every vein of his dick with fervor. “But if you keep fucking pushing -- ”

He pulled you down another inch with a brutal grip, and your mouth fell open, a silent moan caught in your throat. Paralyzed and made cockdumb as you were speared on his cock.

“ -- you’ll tear, baby. And I’ll stop.”

“No -- please -- don’t stop,” you practically begged, nails digging into the broad plane of his chest. “Don’t -- ”

His thumb found your jaw, tilting your face up so you had no choice but to meet his eyes. They burned through the black smear of his mask, like smoke over fire. The sight of your eyes glossed with arousal and absolutely wanton making him quirk his lip up in both amusement and smugness.

“Then behave. Let me take care of you.”

And slowly -- achingly -- he started rocking his hips, coaxing your body to yield around him inch by inch. You swore you could feel every vein, every pulse, the sheer weight of him pressing against everything inside you.

He whispered low between your breaths. Toying and encouraging. Unable to do anything but whimper and whine with every whisper or murmur of praise that slipped past his lips unto the heat of your skin. “There you go. Attagirl.”

You felt stretched, wrecked, cherished. And still, not full. Not yet.

“You think you can take me just like that?” he asked, tone somewhere between pity and pride. “Two inches in and you’re already fuckin’ trembling.”

You whimpered, forehead pressed to his neck. “Simon, please--”

“Please what?” he asked, the edge in his voice cutting and sharp.

You tried to answer but couldn’t form the words. Couldn’t decide if you were begging him to go slower, or if you were begging him to ruin you.

He slid his hand from your side to your lower belly, spreading his fingers like he could feel himself through your skin. His rough palm meeting quivering swell of your abdomen. Your taut and soft skin bulging every time he thrusted just a little bit up.

“Look at that,” he murmured, voice gone soft and tender. “You’re already stretched tight as a fuckin’ drum. Can feel me in you right there.”

He pushed just a little more in, just enough to feel your breath hitch, to hear the soft, gasping sob you tried to swallow down.

“That’s it,” he growled, dragging his mouth along the curve of your jaw. “Let me hear it. No more acting tough.”

“I -- I can take it,” you breathed, voice shaking, lips parting around a moan as your walls spasmed again. The weighty tip of his cock hitting something so deep inside of you that you swore you go cross-eyed for a second.

His grip on your hips tightened, bruising now. Possessive. Like he had to keep you still or you’d burn yourself out trying.

“If you want it all,” he said, voice low and dark and almost gentle, “you’ll take it slowly. Understood?”

You could only give the barest nod. A hiccuping sob falling out of you as you tried to respond.

“Say it,” he commanded, cock twitching inside you at the effort it took you to obey. One hand grabbing your jaw and shaking it so you could focus.

“…I’ll take it slowly,” you whispered, shame and hunger thick in your throat.

He rewarded you with another inch.

Your whole body arched, your thighs shaking, and Simon shushed you, kissed your temple like it was love -- not torment -- making you cry like this.

“That’s it, baby. That’s my girl.”

His free hand trailed from your jaw to the back of your neck, not harsh, but firm -- controlling -- fingers threaded into the damp hair at your nape almost like a scruff.

“You’ll get every fucking inch,” he growled, guiding your hips to roll just a little again -- smirking at you as you gasped. The muscling motion of his cock bullying its way farther, just enough for him to push deeper inside your sopping pussy to make you feel the stretch anew. Your breath caught again, your back arching like a bow.

"But you’ll earn it. Slowly. Or I’ll pull out, and we start from the beginning."

“N-no,” you gasped, the threat of losing the fullness already inside you worse than the ache it caused. Already pleading and asinine on his dick.

“That’s what I thought,” Simon breathed, and pressed a kiss just below your ear -- soft, infuriatingly sweet. A cruel contrast to the way he pushed another inch into you, letting you stretch and struggle around him, walls fluttering helplessly.

You felt everything. The burn. The pressure. The impossible fullness.

“Can’t -- can’t breathe -- ” you choked out, but your hips were still trying to sink lower, driven by instinct, by need, by the desperate ache to be his -- all the way.

“Shhh,” he soothed, hand stroking your spine now. “You’re doin’ so well, lovie. That pretty cunt’s trying so hard to take me. So fuckin’ brave.”

You whimpered again at the praise, high and needy. Your body was strung tight like wire, vibrating under the strain of want -- of pressure, of fullness, of the unfamiliar ache that bordered on unbearable. You didn’t know if it was pain or pleasure anymore. Just knew it was him. That he was inside you -- that Simon was inside you -- and there was still more to go.

Still more of Simon to take.

It felt like he’d carved out space where there had been none before, making room in your body with every slow inch -- leaving nothing untouched, nothing unloved. Every breath was a promise, every sob a silent hymn.

You clung to him like that, face buried in the curve of his throat, mouthing something like please, like more, like yes with every broken inhale. He smelled like smoke and salt and skin. Familiar. Possessive. Sanctified.

Your perfect perfect Simon

Built like something forged from war and worship. A body meant to ruin, a soul meant to cradle. The only man who could split you open so thoroughly, so devastatingly, and still hold you like you were something fragile and precious.

“I can feel your heartbeat,” he murmured, voice low and delicate, thumb brushing your lower belly again -- right where the pressure was deepest. “Right fucking here. Like your body’s tryna hold me inside forever.”

You shivered in his lap, thighs trembling. Every nerve felt lit with fire. Your pussy fluttered around him again, a helpless little squeeze that made him curse under his breath.

“Christ,” he hissed, rutting just a little deeper without meaning to, and your mouth opened on a silent scream. “You feel that? That’s me. All of me.”

“Simon--” you gasped, voice high and ruined. “I--don’t stop--please, don’t stop--”

“Not gonna stop,” he growled, mouth dragging along your temple. “Not ‘til you take all of me. Every last inch. You asked for this, didn’t you?”

You nodded desperately, tears catching on your lashes--not from sorrow, but from the sheer intensity of it. The sacred ache of being filled too full, too deep, too much. The stretch that felt like breaking. The ache and spasm that felt like worship.

“I’ll split you open,” he warned, voice gone dark and low and hushed again. “But you’ll love every second of it.”

And you would.

Because there was no fear in the way he held you. No violence in the way he stayed still, let you breathe, let you tremble. Just adulation and praise. Just ruin made gentle. A slow claiming carved in sweat and softness.

You tilted your hips, desperate for more friction now, some kind of movement to ground the heat spiraling through you, but he only pulled you tighter. Anchored you.

"Not yet," he murmured. “Not ‘til you stop shaking.”

“I’ll never stop,” you whispered, voice splintered but honest, “not if you’re still inside me.”

He exhaled a quiet, broken laugh. Pressed his mouth to your temple like a man sealing something sacred.

“Then I guess I’ll never leave.”

And when he finally moved -- when his hips rolled up and your bodies met with that wet, aching slide -- it wasn’t just fucking.

So fucking good. So good but so so full and paralyzing.

But....

.... you let it happen. Let yourself be undone beneath him. Shattered. Remade.

Because if Simon Riley was going to break you, it was only so he could stay inside every part of you that split.

Forever.

drabbles

masterlist

[meimeislibray]

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓞𝓷𝓵𝔂 𝓔𝔁𝓬𝓮𝓹𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷

Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader

Tw: severe PTSD, dissociation, trust issues, and emotional detachment,SA,Depression

˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚ ˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚ ˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊

Simon knew that living with him was never easy he tried to be a better man for you but the thoughts of you getting hurt because of him or by him haunt him.The PTSD made him jolt at any louder noise which causes you to be quiet…but you were always so loud and bubbly around your friends but around him you need to walk on eggshells that what he feels like.And when the jealousy gets to him he shuts down the trust issue lay deep in him,you never gave him a reason to question your love for him but he always overreacts.Poor Girl stuck with such a Broken Man like him…and when he looks closer in the mirror he doesn’t have the beauty to make up for it.And also the Detachment Emotionally the numbness he loved you that was Clear to him but sometimes his emotions go numb he doesn’t feel anything just the Pain,the Trauma and then he leaves you left wondering in the Home you two build in the Country Side of England away from Manchester,his Childhood,his abuser.But when he left he gets back Days later sleeping in Motels mostly and everytime you sit there and just take all of his emotional baggage.You deserve the world a Woman like you deserves a man who is there for her,listens to her,loves her every night,makes love to her…but he,he couldn’t do that cause he was Broken,Shattered and just Dead Inside.

“Love….where we-“ you ask him as he enters the House at 2 am.But he doesn’t let you finish “We should break up” were his words as he walks past’s you in the hallway and up the stairs.You run up the stairs amd see him packing his stuff into his duffle. “Simon Riley” youre voice is sharp and he stiffens.”Simon put the duffle down and the clothes we will talk now” youre voice was sharp.And he turns around his eyes meet yours and you come closer.”Listen Babe….i know what you think i knew you for 5 years now and i can see trough you-“ her voice was soft again but he cuts her off.”Babe-this can’t-we can’t continue because of my shit you change your quiet…but usually you’re loud and happy…i am jealous and think you cheat on me but you never gave me any reason to doubt our love…and then i leave and you act like it never happened and continue-THIS ISNT WHAT YOU DESERVE” he says and he sees your eyes glint with tears.”Simon—oh my Simon” you come closer and he wouldve turned away when he wasn’t so frozen in place you hold put your forehead against his chest.”You…you are my everything and i don’t care if i need to tone down.I will Never ever ever ever cheat on you before i do that i would rather chop off my Arms.And when you leave i figure you need some space.Simon i love you and i have no problem to sacrifice some of my shit to you cause you are my Soulmate.Hell i would even go back in time if i could and put all the pain on me for you too life normally” Simon could feel your sobs after you finish your sentence.”Love you need to let me go find another man who gives you everything” he says cold,but his heart shatters and he just wants to hold you.”Please don’t leave me..please Simon i love you and i don’t care that you’re broken how you would call yourself or ugly…and i noticed how you look at yourself.Babe you’re my one and only okay you’re the hottest most handsome man,you’re strong and i admire you for that but after 5 years Simon you can be weak with me,break apart in my arms,cry,talk to me i don’t care and i would never dare to think your weak,cause you’re not babe.” and then you feel his arms around your frame and then his head on-top of yours.”Babe-please don’t convince me you’re too good for me” he whispers to you.”Simon please i love you” the words come out in a sob and youre legs are close to giving in,Simon notices and guides you both to the floor.And you cling to his large Frame crying and this breaks Simons heart.He was a cold killer on the battlefield but right now his tears fall onto the skull balaclava.The grip gets tighter and his head is buried in your shoulder as your sobs calm down you hear him quietly cry.”Its fine let it out” he could feel your hands on his back and your lips on his clothed forehead.His face,you saw it before and god he was a angle….angle of war or of your Heart.As he calms down the seam of the balaclava gets lifted by you, darker blonde hair appear and the beautiful face.And then you kiss him like never before kiss his tears away his face his neck and he lets you,but he kisses you back.And he realizes that this is love you really love him,your in love with him.

That evening when you two fall asleep in his arms everything feels fine.You’re finger in his short hair and his fingers are on your waist.Its fine,you two are fine…and its like you glued the small small pieces of his heart together.

˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚ ˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚ ˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊

[ltsghostriley]

LIEUTENANT!

*pushes you a plate of food and a mug of tea*

Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Medic's orders.

-🪖

Won’t complain, saving me from the noise of the mess hall with this.

[Headcanon unlocked]

| 𝘽𝙍𝙀𝘼𝙆𝙁𝘼𝙎𝙏 𝙏𝙄𝙈𝙀

When I tell you this man eats? He eats.

Breakfast is more than just the first and most important meal of the day to him from a health standpoint and literal sense. Over the years spent with 141, they’ve come to coin what is known as the Breakfast Barometer. Also known as: On a scale from eggs to empty what’s the survival rate today?

| 🔴 𝙏𝙄𝙀𝙍 𝙊𝙉𝙀 — 𝙒𝙀’𝙍𝙀 𝙁𝙐𝘾𝙆𝙀𝘿

Hard day ahead. No nonsense. Most likely prepped up for a mission, a serious discussion about the last drill got sideways, or grilling a rookie or two. Hardly talkative, get a stare at best that makes you wish you hadn’t breathed in his direction.

- Two fried eggs with the yolk running, back bacon, sausage, black pudding, beans, grilled tomato, fried bread. Strong builder’s tea.

| 🟠 𝙏𝙄𝙀𝙍 𝙏𝙒𝙊 — 𝙏𝙀𝘼 𝘼𝙉𝘿 𝙏𝙊𝙇𝙀𝙍𝘼𝙉𝘾𝙀

This is his baseline. Standard Ghost, as readable as his face is under that mask. He’s alive, even if he slept like shit he’s alive. He might give you a nod today, a little sarcastic quip if he’s feeling it, but his energy isn’t for others today. Conservation and reservation at it’s finest.

- Bacon butty with some HP sauce, beans on toast with the occasional cheese, Earl Grey tea. Sufficient.

| 🟡 𝙏𝙄𝙀𝙍 𝙏𝙃𝙍𝙀𝙀 — 𝙎𝙐𝙉 𝙎𝙋𝙊𝙏𝙎

If any of these dishes make an appearance, Ghost is more approachable than not. A chuckle or two today, a humored scoff. More tolerant than before of Soap’s antics, maybe dishes it back for a toss or two before sinking back into his solitude. A smile might seep out. Don’t point it out otherwise back to tier two he’ll go.

- Oatcakes with egg and mushroom, black currant jam on crumpets, black pudding toss toastie, sweetened porridge. Is that cream near his tea?

| 🟢 𝙏𝙄𝙀𝙍 𝙁𝙊𝙐𝙍 — 𝙈𝙊𝙍𝙉𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙍𝙄𝙇𝙀𝙔 He actually slept, those shoulders aren't near horizontal. The air is suspiciously sweet, without anything to cover it up. Think of a Dad enjoying his off day sort of vibes. He'll still throw a quip or two but the smile is heard in his voice accompanying it. Might even go out of his way to throw a prank or two your way.

- Bubble and Squeak with egg, butter pie straight from the foil, roast potato hash, treacle sponge with custard, drop scones with golden syrup, crumpets with clotted cream and jam, sticky toffee porridge with bits of date and a caramel swirl. | ⚫ 𝙏𝙄𝙀𝙍 𝙁𝙄𝙑𝙀 — 𝙎𝙄𝙈𝙊𝙉

What if he skipped breakfast altogether? Kettle still untouched, his plate left empty from the morning servings. Not so much as a sound as he sits down? The date must be important to him in the way his mind won't ever forget. Give him space to mildly dissociate, go through the motions. It's a miracle he sat down at the table at all. That tea will go cold and settle, and while there is an effort to pick up the fork, it doesn't go much of anywhere. Don't ask him if he wants a fresh cup, or leftovers. Just leave him be and brace for impact or a disappearing act.

[simonz-angel]

loser!simon who can’t even last a make out sesh 💦💦💦

your fingers splay, dipping into the soft divots of his collarbones before they’re steadying at his shoulders. the tip of your nose bends, breaths hot, heavy, suffocating the two of you as your teeth clash in a brutal kiss.

you’re tongue licks across the span of his, the pretty, pink muscle falling slack to your torment as you caress and suck. it’s lewd the noises that resonate from the slick kiss, and it has simon fuckin reeling.

his mind deepens into a trance of fogginess, fighting to keep up with the way your lips make quick work of his. he’s gasping and moaning, groaning like he’s in some sort of pain, exhausting at his vocal cords. though he is in a struggle, cock strained tight beneath his jeans, and with every rock of your hips he’s leaking into his boxers. making a damn mess of himself.

his hands fall, grabbing at the doughy, thick fat of your ass. and he’s suddenly wrenching you up almost, forcing your spine to arch up just to let his fingers slip, he’s reaching over you, letting the rough pads grab at your plush pussy, feeling the sweet sweet, puffy outline through your thin shorts.

you gasp, letting your own fingers grab at his cheeks, forcing his lips off you, you tilt his head back. you wait, watching as his blonde lashes flutter, honey eyes meeting yours. his jaw sits dropped in your palm, hot breath panting at your pretty face as he smiles lazily, unashamed of his wandering hands.

you return the quirk, leaning over him slowly to let a glistening drip of spit fall. and his eyes drop, tongue unfolding before its landing hot in the center. and he groans, eager to swallow before he’s grabbing at you in a rushed mess, kissing you messy, desperately, clinging to you tight.

“easy, baby,” you breathe into his mouth, grabbing at his throat as you push him further into couch, reminding him of his place. his hand gathers the hair at the base of your skull, fisting it tight as his chest heaves before sucking in a guttural gasp.

you can feel his hips jut, his back pull into a shuddering arch. his thighs shake gently beneath you, tongue flexing before it falls lax, jaw dropped in heaving whimpers, working himself up and through his own release.

his free hand is tight in the conjunction of your hip, thumb digging tight as he just barely rolls at your hips, settling you down against his raised hips. you’re sure you can feel the way his cock milks, twitching beneath his jeans, a stuffy overstimulating mess gathering beneath the thick material.

and when his body jerks one last time before going limp you’re all teeth, giggling as you pull yourself off his lips, relaxing back to coil a soft smirk. “that’s not what i meant when i said easy, simon.”

[lilmouse89]

Quiet Little Mouse 🐀

Fan art of Simon Ghost Riley🕸️

[ha1lstorm]

Thinking soooo much about Ghost lately and masked men in general sigh…. YES IM OVULATING.

Since I hate America, enjoy some Ghost content, my favorite BRITISH army lieutenant 🫡 unhappy Fourth of July, ain’t shit to celebrate right now.

Anyways…short little thang

ੈ✩‧₊˚ ੈ✩‧₊˚ ੈ✩‧₊˚ ੈ✩‧₊˚ ੈ✩‧₊˚ ੈ✩‧₊˚

Simon “Ghost” Riley who pounds into you at an unforgiving pace, saying the NASTIEST things in your ear

Simon “Ghost” Riley who no matter what position he has you in, has his hand around your throat in someway, not even choking you, just to remind you that you’re HIS

Simon “Ghost” Riley who will appeal to your mask kink and fuck you with his mask on…but only cause you asked (he likes the idea too)

Simon “Ghost” Riley who tells you over and over again that you can and will take it, no matter how many times you tell him it’s too much

Simon “Ghost” Riley who also has the capability to praise the shit out of you, a man of many talents

Simon “Ghost” Riley who tells you “Fucking take it y’little brat” but then two seconds later says “You’re so beautiful, you take me so well, such a good girl”

Simon “Ghost” Riley who makes you cum multiple times, until he is satisfied. But don’t worry, he’ll give you some words of encouragement…”One more pretty girl, you can do it for me” (it was not only one more)

Simon “Ghost” Riley who cums inside of you…that’s it.

Simon “Ghost” Riley who takes care of you afterwards, holding you tight, cleaning you up, giving you light kisses on top of your head

Simon “Ghost” Riley who LOVES you but is also so very capable of ruining you ;)

[cheeseatlantic]

haha guys no more mr nice guy… heh.

WHAT WE WERE NEVER GONNA BE

You didn’t even wanna call it a situationship. Not in the beginning.

Simon Riley wasn’t just some brooding fuckbuddy with a skull mask and a million-yard stare—he was… familiar. The kind of man who could look at you across a bar with that unreadable face and still make your lungs forget how to breathe. He’d touch you like he didn’t know how to be gentle, but then pull you close afterward like he was scared you’d disappear.

You told yourself this could be something.

You thought you were being patient.

You thought he was worth it.

And maybe, somewhere under all that armor, he was. But damn if he didn’t make you work for every scrap of affection. Sex was the easy part. You both knew how to get lost in it, to let moans and teeth and nails speak the words neither of you could say. But when it was over? When your limbs were tangled and your heart was so full it ached—

He always left.

Sometimes physically. Sometimes emotionally. But always, always, he left.

Still, you stayed.

Hoping.

You were curled up on his shitty leather couch the day you finally asked. Hoodie pulled over your hands. His. It still smelled like him—cologne and burnt coffee, cigarettes and gunpowder. Your legs were tucked under you, your cheek pressed to the armrest as he sat across from you, scrolling through his phone like he hadn’t just had you whining beneath him two hours ago.

You swallowed hard.

“Simon.”

He looked up at you, expression unreadable. “Yeah, luv?”

“I want more.” You said it softly. “I wanna make this official.”

A long silence.

The kind that makes your ribs compress. You stared at him, waiting. Praying.

Then—flatly, coldly—he spoke.

“This ain’t that kind of thing.”

You blinked. “What?”

He dropped his phone on the table. Leaned forward, forearms on knees. Voice like a loaded gun. “I never promised you anything, yeah? We fuck. We get along sometimes. That’s it.”

Your stomach sank. “You—you kissed me last week and said you—”

“Yeah, well.” He cut you off. Eyes cold. “Maybe I was feelin’ soft. Doesn’t mean I love you.”

You stared at him like you didn’t recognize him. Because honestly, you didn’t.

“Is this a joke?” Your voice cracked. “After all this time?”

He didn’t flinch. “You knew what this was.”

“No, you knew what this was. I was fucking—hoping—”

“Stop,” he barked. “Stop twisting it. Don’t put that shit on me.”

Your heart shattered like glass. Splintering deep.

He stood up. His hoodie rode up slightly and you caught a glimpse of a scar on his hip. A reminder of how close you’d been. Of all the times you kissed that skin, marked it, adored it like a shrine.

Now he was a stranger again. A closed door. A locked vault.

“I’m not built for that shite,” he said gruffly, turning away. “You want love, go find it somewhere else.”

You didn’t scream. Didn’t argue.

You just left.

⸻

The sky was gray when you got home. Summer storm overhead, hot wind crawling over your skin. It was wrong. It was all wrong.

Your fingers moved on their own.

You ripped open closets, drawers, duffels. Anything that had his name on it—shirts, spare boxers, his damn combat boots, a half-broken dog tag he left behind once. The disposable razor in your shower. The ceramic mug with the chip on the side that only he used.

All of it.

Out.

You dragged it outside like it was toxic waste. Like maybe if it wasn’t in your house anymore, you could breathe.

You piled it in the backyard. Right in the middle of the lawn. Concrete flowerpot full of old newspapers. His cologne soaked into it like gasoline. You threw one of his balaclavas on top like a fucking flag.

And then?

You lit the match.

The flames ate it all so fast it scared you.

The hoodie—his hoodie—was still on your frame. You’d meant to take it off before setting fire to everything but… you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

It was too late now anyway.

Heat licked at your skin. You stood there, just watching. Hair whipping across your face. Smoke curling into your eyes. The hoodie hung heavy on your frame, sleeves pulled over your fists like a second skin.

Your body trembled.

“Fuck you,” you whispered.

The wind stole it.

“Fuck you, Simon Riley.” Louder this time. Throat raw. “You fuckin’ coward.”

The fire crackled back at you.

“I would’ve loved you. I did love you, you piece of shit.” Your voice shook. “And you—you just threw me away like I was nothing.”

Flames roared higher. You took a step back. Then forward again.

Suddenly, he was there. In the fire.

Not really. Of course not.

But fuck if your brain didn’t want it. The silhouette of him—broad shoulders, skull mask flickering in orange light. Arms at his sides like he was ready for a war. Like he heard you screaming, and finally showed up.

“Say something,” you screamed.

The image didn’t move.

“I waited for you, Simon. I fought for you. And you didn’t even try.”

The heat got too close. You stumbled back, dropped to your knees in the grass. Hands digging into dirt. Still wearing his hoodie like it was armor and a wound all at once.

You saw his face in the flames.

Or maybe you just wanted to.

The same half-shadowed one that used to hover over you in the dark. Eyes soft. Voice quiet. He used to say your name like it meant something.

He was saying it now.

Maybe not out loud. But in your head. Like a whisper you couldn’t silence.

You curled in on yourself. Sobs racking your body, hot and heavy and wild. Your forehead hit the grass. Arms tucked tight against your stomach.

The fire cracked and hissed, dying down little by little until the only thing left was smoke and ash and silence.

You stayed there.

Still. Breathing.

The sky turned black.

And eventually—

You passed out, face down in the dirt, Simon Riley’s hoodie pulled over your broken body like a burial shroud.

And all that was left of him… was gone.

HOW CAN WE GO BACK TO BEING FRIENDS WHEN WE JUST SHARED A BEDDDDDDD

[jaesblogstuff]

The Weight of saying it

Probably will hate Mr. Riley himself after this but HEY.. me personally I would've fucked him up

You can feel it before he even opens his mouth. That something-isn’t-right feeling. That cold, heavy pressure in your chest. Like the air’s gone stale. Like the earth’s tilting and no one told you to brace yourself.

He’s standing in the doorway, hands clenched at his sides. Boots still on. Jacket unzipped. Like he couldn’t decide if he was coming or going, just ended up here out of instinct.

Your place. Yours. The only place he’s ever been able to breathe.

“Hey,” you say, voice tentative, because he hasn’t looked at you yet. “Everything alright?”

His jaw ticks. Just once. He finally lifts his head. Looks at you. And that’s when it sinks in. No, it’s not alright. Matter of fact, everything is far from alright.

You sit up straighter on the couch. The TV still flickers behind you, some movie you stopped paying attention to ages ago. The whiskey glass in your hand suddenly feels too warm. Too small. Placed aside subconsciously. 

And then he says your name. Soft. Brittle. Like it’s the first time it’s hurt him to say it.

“I need you to let me say this before you say anything back.”

You freeze, just accepting this would be the kind of confession that might shatter whatever world still exists between you.

“I’ve fucked up before,” he starts, voice low, cracking just slightly. “I’ve made bad calls. Hurt people. Lost people. But this—”

He drags a hand down his face. Rubs at his eyes like he’s trying to scrub them clean of the last twenty-four hours. Of the weight he’s carried into your home.

“This is different.”

“There’s someone else,” he says.

You stare at him. You stand up, your body moving faster than your mind ever did. You just step back, and stare at the man in front of you, hoping he doesn't say the words you thought you’d never hear.

The syllables echo. Empty. Hollow. Until they start to land—sharp, jagged pieces breaking open inside your chest.

He sees it. Hears the sharp breath you take, the soundless recoil. But he powers through it, like a man walking into the fire he lit himself.

“She doesn’t mean anything to me. I need you to know that first.”

“It was one time. One night. After a deployment. We weren’t... We weren’t good then. I thought—” He cuts himself off. “No excuses. Just the truth.”

You blink, slow. Your body’s trying to catch up with your mind. But your mind is... blank. Like your brain short-circuited and your heart got left to bleed out on the carpet. You breathe in and press your hands to your thighs like grounding will stop the shaking.

It doesn’t.

He finally meets your eyes. And his voice gets even quieter. “She’s pregnant.”

Silence. That’s all there is. Thick and awful and final.

You feel heat rise to your face. Not anger. Not yet. It’s just humiliation.

Because you didn’t see this coming. Because you let yourself believe he was yours. Because somewhere deep down, you believed that what you had was... solid. Sacred.

“She told me last week,” he says. “I needed to be sure before I came to you. Got the test. It’s real. I’m gonna be a father.”

You tilt your head down and laugh. Disbelief. A sharp, empty exhale that surprises even you. But nothing’s funny. It’s shock.

The tears don’t come right away. They just build like pressure, like static. Like grief. Grief for something that hasn’t even ended yet, but already feels dead.

“I didn’t love her. I don’t love her. I’ve only ever—” He steps forward. “It’s always been you.”

And when you finally speak, your voice isn’t cruel. It isn’t screaming. It’s quiet. Hollow. You look at him, theres nothing behind your eyes, he’s not used to it. Never seen it before. Like he just blew the fuse holding you together.

“Why are you here?”

His eyes widen. “Because I—”

“No,” you cut in. “Why are you here, Simon?”

He finally kneels in front of you. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that you can see the rawness in his eyes. The pain. The regret. The shame.

You look at him now—really look. His face, the lines in it, the panic behind his eyes. You’ve never seen him like this. And somehow, it makes it worse.

“Are you here because you love me?” you ask, voice tight. “Or because you’re scared of what loving her would mean?”

He shakes his head, fast, like denial alone could fix this.

“There is no her,” he says. “There never was.”

“Except now there is,” you snap, and your voice finally breaks. “Because you made sure of that.”

He goes silent.

And you hate how much he still looks at you like you’re something he wants to protect.

“This isn’t about my career. Or my past. It’s about us,” he says.

“Do you know what it’s like,” you say, the tears finally slipping free, “to stand here and feel second to something that should’ve never happened?”

“I’m man enough to own this, but I’m beggin’ you—don’t walk away without hearin’ me say it one more time. I love you.”

“I waited for you,” you whisper. “I chose you. Again and again, even when you were hard to love, even when you disappeared into yourself and left me wondering if I was enough.”

“You are enough,” he says, voice breaking.

You shake your head. “Not if I have to compete with a fucking baby, Simon. Are you even hearing yourself?”

He swallows hard. Looks down at his hands—those same hands that held you, protected you, pulled you out of every fight like you were something sacred.

Now they just tremble.

The silence that falls is different now. It’s loud. Thundering. Your voice drops to a near-whisper.

“I would’ve taken anything from you, Simon. Anything. Pain. Distance. Even heartbreak. But not this.”

You don’t realize you’re moving until your legs carry you. He doesn’t follow.

Good. Because if he touches you now, you don’t know what you’ll do.

“You broke something,” you say, arms wrapped tight around yourself like you’re holding your ribs together. “And I don’t think you even understand how deep that goes.” You feel physically sick.

He opens his mouth.

“No,” you say quickly, backing up a step. “Don’t. Not right now.”

He’s still kneeling, still watching you like he’s waiting to be punished.

And that makes you ache in some twisted, wrong way, because you can see how sorry he is.

But sorry doesn’t put your heart back together.

Sorry doesn’t unmake a child.

Sorry doesn’t mean he’s not hers now too.

You walk past him. Not fast. Not loud. Just... done.

You pause near the hallway, hand resting on the wall to steady yourself. Your chest rises and falls with the effort of holding it together.

“You need to go,” you say softly.

He still doesn’t move.

“Please, Simon.”

It’s the “please” that does it. The crack in your voice. The finality.

He rises slowly, like gravity’s doubled in strength. You don’t turn around, but you hear the door open. Hear him hesitate. And then you hear it close.

You sink to the floor. With a fucking knife to your chest.

[tobeholyistobeempty]

firm believer that simon riley gets meaner when he’s high. not giggly or mellow but dangerous. predatory. some additional layer of his six sense kicks in and now he’s hyper fucking aware of everything he blocks out on a daily to keep his sanity intact and that says alot because the motherfucker is as perceptive as it gets. i think he gets looser with his hands and hungrier with his mouth. tongue like a feather so he talks more - which is why he prefers to smoke alone.

the reservation he maintains on a daily to be as quiet as he is dissipates and he’s just blatantly upfront. about everything. he won’t subject anyone to that.

but then, unfortunately, there’s you.

simon’s been training you for weeks, so naturally you’ve started to become more like him in every way. you’re sharper, stronger, and your eyes never stop moving. you’re the only one that picks up on the fact that simon riley disappears every single night just before midnight and doesn’t come back for a solid hour. not even price knows where the fuck he goes.

and so it turns into a game. you try to find a way to figure out where he’s going without him noticing but for as good as he’s trained you to be he will always be 10 steps ahead. when you finally do catch him, little do you know he let you. only because he thinks it’s time you find out what happens to cats who are just a little too curious.

yet another lesson he has to teach you, he supposes, as he watches those glazed eyes of yours roll back behind the shed that he smokes at every night.